AUTHOR'S NOTE
Let me just begin this by saying...sorry for the cliffhanger! In repentance, I offer this: A LONG CHAPTER! Or at least it's longer than past chapters with lots of fun dialogue and progress :) I hope I'm forgiven!
I'd also like to take this opportunity to despair a bit over the characters. I'm sure you HP fans will all notice a bit of out of character behaviour. Okay, so the future Draco is a bit more pleasant, a bit kinder, and much more playful. He's been socialized...like a puppy is after you bring it home and train it...where as the younger Draco is not (wow, terrible analogy. I hope it makes some sense!). The younger Draco is...well...you will see! I hope you enjoy the chapter though, I put a lot of thought into it!
Disclaimer: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!
Happy reading!
JJ
CHAPTER SEVEN
MISPLACED
"Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves."
Henry David Thoreau
Hermione turned a dial on the stove absently, her eyes fixed on the blonde sitting at the kitchen table. He sat facing the warped doorframe and the now dark entranceway she had lead him through moments before. She was grateful he couldn't see her. Like some sort of horrific car accident, she was unable to look away. Her perverse fascination with the sheer improbability and absurdity of the situation quelled the voice in the back of her head, the rational faculty of her mind.
All she could see were his hunched shoulders as he towel dried his hair. As soon as he had stepped foot in the kitchen, Hermione had busied herself before he had the chance to say anything, before they could be enveloped by awkward silence. She had pulled a clean towel from the basket of laundry sitting on the far end of the table, thrusting it into his arms. He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. She anxiously shuffled about, making tea, not that he had asked for any, not that she wanted any.
Hermione's head ached with the sudden feeling of deja vu.
Her mind frantically worked over the facts, over the little information she had. It wasn't much given Draco's—the future one, that is—secretive behaviour since his arrival a few weeks earlier. That was reason enough to believe she wouldn't get anything meaningful out of his younger self, let alone any pertinent information regarding Voldemort or the Death Eaters. That was, of course, assuming his presence at 12 Grimmauld Place meant he was a turncoat. She had no idea why he was here, and now of all times, in the thick of things.
"I can get you some dry clothing," she said, breaking the uneasy silence.
He turned his head a fraction of an inch in her direction, acknowledging her kindness, but he said nothing and curtly nodded his head. He hadn't said anything since she had opened the door to see him on the step. Following her initial shock she quickly composed herself and beckoned him into the house and out of the rain. As he passed her in the doorway she could feel the chill radiating off of his body. It was an odd sensation, feeling the cold ebbing from him rather than warmth.
Hermione could spot the bottom of the unholy brand marring his left forearm, peeking out from the edges of the white fabric of his oxford button down and black sweater. The shirt was plastered to his skin, pale and blanched by the cold and the wet. The sweater looked like it was made of an expensive material, cashmere maybe. The rain had stretched the fine fabric, though, and it hung off his frame.
Harry had been right all along, it seemed, and Snape had joylessly informed them that Malfoy, following in the footsteps of his father, had taken the Dark Mark. Not only was he a Death Eater, but he sat at Voldemort's table as a member of His innermost circle with the likes of his aunt Bellatrix, Snape, Pettigrew, Avery, Macnair, Lestrange, Nott, and Dolohov.
It was then that the severity and the gravity of the situation began to impress upon her. Hermione couldn't imagine why he was here of all places and now, not when it meant his death warrant.
The whistle of the kettle tore her attention from him and to the empty tea cup in front of her. She didn't know if he took milk or sugar with his tea. She really didn't know anything about him other than her highly biased and, prejudiced observations and her dealings with him at Hogwarts. As she was beginning to understand, though, he was capable of change, even if it was only minor. She turned off the stove, poured the water, and sat the cup in front of him.
"Milk? Sugar?"
"No."
After a moment of hesitation, he looked up at her briefly. "Thank you."
Hermione smiled, shifting slightly. She was so consumed by her thoughts she forgot what she was supposed to be doing. Instead, she watched him closely. Something was off. His movements were slow and measured, lethargic almost. It looked oddly familiar to her.
He didn't touch his tea. She couldn't see his face and it was beginning to irritate her. If she couldn't trust him to tell her why he was here or what his intentions were, the least she could do was see his expression. If the eyes were the window to the soul then there had to be some truth in them. Words were like misnomers, disingenuous and arbitrary. The distance between intention and confession was almost too great to bridge. Draco kept his eyes focussed on the towel he held in his lap.
"Clothes," she said abruptly.
"What?" he looked up at her.
"I'm going upstairs to find you some dry clothes."
He said nothing but watched her hurry upstairs. She would find some wearable clothing for him, but it certainly wasn't her first priority. She was going to have a talk with the other Mr. Draco Malfoy who had shut himself in his room upstairs. It seemed there were a great many things that he was keeping from her, but this was the last straw. If he was willing to share information concerning the Order, that included her. As it were, he didn't seem to see it that way.
Hermione stormed up the stairs, making more noise than necessary. She passed the study on the first landing, marching up another set of stairs to the second landing and then a third set of stairs to the top floor.
She didn't knock, but flung open the door. Draco didn't seemed surprised by her rude and sudden entrance. He was sitting at his desk, his feet propped up on a pile of books, his ankles crossed. He looked quite at his leisure. She stepped into the room without an invitation, slamming the door behind her, sending violent tremors up the length of the old doorframe.
"Hermione."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she nearly shouted.
"You're a big girl, I figured you could handle it."
"Oh, I can handle it," she assured him. "But you could have warned me or given me some notice first!"
"I could have."
"You haven't changed at all," she hissed, adorning an expression akin to disgust. "You're just as self-serving as ever."
"Self-serving?" he laughed, a bitter edge undermining any humour in the expression. "I've done nothing but help you since I wound up in this house!"
"You call that help? You haven't told me anything and now you leave me to sort out this mess by myself?"
"Well I can't exactly go downstairs and explain everything to myself now, can I Hermione?"
His sarcasm only fueled the fire. Hermione was red in the face now, an angry flush creeping its way along her neck and staining her cheeks a vibrant shade of scarlet. All the muscles in her body were tense and her fists were clenched at her side. Draco's body language was strikingly similar to her own. He no longer looked relaxed in his chair, but had his feet firmly planted on the ground, glaring at her.
"Don't be dense, you know that's not what I meant, Malfoy."
She had used his surname. After weeks of niceties and strangely pleasant company, she reverted back to her suspicion of him at the first instance of uncertainty. One step forward and two back.
"I could've informed the Order but instead you spring this on me!"
"This is exactly how it's supposed to happen!"
"No," she snapped. "It's how you want it to happen. What you want isn't always good or right, Malfoy. Other people need to be consulted, to be considered, in your decisions. The world does not revolve around you, as you clearly think it does."
"You don't understand."
His frustration was evident. He raked his hand roughly through his unruly hair, shaking his head.
"Then explain it to me. Just tell me what's going on."
"Are you mentally deficient or are you just deaf? Haven't you listened to a single word I've said? I can't tell you. I won't tell you. That's it. You have to trust me."
"No," she said, stepping back. "I don't."
"Too bad, Granger. You don't have a choice," he said, walking over to her.
Draco grabbed her arm roughly. His hand was warm and large, but surprisingly rough. She could feel callouses on his palm and fingertips. He dragged her over to the door and pulled it open.
"You're hurting me," she said, wrenching her arm from his grasp.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice unforgiving and low. He towered over her in the doorway. She had never been unsettled by him, but his frame was domineering and the repressed anger in his voice was evident. "I've just denounced my family, my friends, I've turned my back on everything I've ever known and now I have a price on my head. I've quite literally ruined my life and I'm sitting downstairs in the kitchen. Get off your bloody, self-righteous high horse and show a little human compassion. Now get out."
He shoved her out of his room and onto the landing, slamming the door and enveloping her in darkness.
"Rotten bastard," she mumbled, turning on her heel and stomping down the stairs towards Harry and Ron's room.
For a few seconds, Draco thought he could hear shouting. The voices were distant, nothing but a faint hum, but they were emphatic and animated. As quickly as they had escalated, though, they had disappeared altogether. Shortly after there was a sharp snap and he could hear someone coming downstairs. He pressed the towel to his face again, spotting the soft material with blood.
He wasn't alone for much longer. Hermione appeared in the doorway holding a pile of dry clothing.
"They might not fit, they're all I could find."
If he cared at all he didn't acknowledge it. Instead he reached into the pocket of his trousers. It hadn't occurred to Hermione to have her own wand at the ready or to be wary of him. His movements were slower still, slower than they had been earlier. First he pulled out a damp, rumpled piece of parchment and set it on the table. Next he pulled out his wand. It was very different from her own. While hers was delicate his was sturdy, hers was ornate and his was stylistically simple. His was hawthorn wood while hers was vine wood. It was fitting, though, considering how different the two of them were.
Draco held the wand by the tip, though, not by the handle. His one hand clutched his side tenderly. Hermione realized he was surrendering his wand to her, exposing himself. He was willingly putting himself in a position of submission and vulnerability. Whether or not it was a trick, though, she couldn't be sure.
"I need help."
Hermione slowly reached out and took his wand. It felt heavy in her hand. The handle was a smooth curve absent of any ornament or texture. It was worn from use but well cared for. She nodded her head. Help, that was something she was willing to provide, especially for the down trodden. It was her crux, her weakness, and at times such as these, her fault. Upstairs, Draco had been betting on it.
"We can do that. Why don't you go upstairs and get changed—"
"No," he insisted. "I need help."
"Yes, well, once you get dressed—"
"I mean," he interrupted, pained by what he was about to say, what he was asking of her. "I can't. Get upstairs. I need help with..."
Hermione followed his gaze to his side were he had the towel pressed. She followed the line of his body, noting the water dripping from his black trousers was pink. It was starting to stain the floor. She hadn't noticed on the step because of the rain or earlier, in the kitchen, because of his black clothing, but he was bleeding. Then she realized what he was saying.
"Oh," she said, clearing her throat. "Alright."
She put his wand on the table and hurried about the kitchen, finding a cloth and a basin to fill with warm water.
"What happened?" she asked.
There was a long pause before he spoke.
"Who were you talking to upstairs?"
Fair enough, she thought. If he didn't want to talk about it, she certainly wasn't going to force him. And she certainly wasn't going to tell him anything about her unusual house guest. Not unless the older Draco gave her reason to. It was the only leverage she had.
"Okay," she said, setting the basin down on the table. "Lift your arms."
He managed to get them just over his shoulder before wincing, unable to lift them any higher. Hermione grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled it upwards in one swift motion. Draco barked out a few choice curses and leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall back. She could see the tendons in his neck straining against his pale skin as he clenched his teeth.
"Fuck, woman," he snarled.
She tossed his ruined sweater on the table, ignoring his outburst. The side of his shirt was heavily saturated with blood.
"Take off your shirt," she said pulling out her own wand.
Draco raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her artlessness and she rolled rolled her eyes.
"Do you want my help or not?"
Draco unbuttoned his shirt slowly, gingerly shrugging it off his shoulders. A nasty bruise was beginning to form on his right side around the cut. It was an ugly, mottled spot of red and blue that was beginning to purple.
"I think you've some broken ribs."
"Wonderful. I think I could've figured that one out on my own."
"I don't have to help you. I could let you bleed to death in this kitchen."
He glared at her, reaching for his side again. Hermione noticed the many scars littering his torso. They were thin scars, the lines clean and straight. It was most certainly the work of a curse. Draco was watching her reaction carefully. Her eyes travelled the length of his torso, taking in the sheer number of them, and her eyes softened. Her expression looked almost like pity. It wasn't an emotion he was familiar with, nor was it one he wanted expressed towards him. He didn't need her pity. It didn't matter than he was in over his head, his pride and vanity would not be accosted by her of all people.
"They didn't hurt," he lied. "They only look terrible."
Why he felt the need to justify himself to her, he didn't know. Perhaps it was that she was staring at him like some ruddy animal at the zoo or like some charity case that needed fixing up.
"Hm?" she asked, feigning ignorance.
"The scars."
"Did Harry..."
He nodded. Harry had told her what had happened in the bathroom between him and Malfoy. At first, she couldn't quite believe that Harry had been so reckless. Sectumsempra was almost as bad as the Unforgivables. It was deadly, and even if one was healed the effects were permanent if Dittany wasn't applied to prevent scarring. Healing spells couldn't heal wounds entirely, especially those caused by particularly Dark Magic.
"I'm going to mend the bones," she told him. "It's going to hurt quite a bit."
Draco stared straight ahead, taking his hand off the tender skin so she could reach the injury with her wand. He wiped the blood on his trousers, nodding and inhaling deeply.
"Brackium Emendo," she murmured.
The sound of bones snapping back into place, resetting themselves, and mending filled the otherwise silence kitchen. Draco choked back a grunt, keeling over in his chair and immediately clutching his side again. The bruise began to fade, signaling the spell had been cast properly.
"It's going to be sore for a while, I'm afraid."
She turned her attention to the bleeding. She fixed up his side, turning to the particularly nasty gash on his shoulder, carefully mended with the Vulnera Sanentur spell. She proceeded to mend several small ones with a simple Episkey.
"Your side and your shoulder will scar," she told him. "I'm out of Dittany."
"What are two more scars?"
Hermione nodded, turning her attention to his face. There was a cut just above his left eye, one she recognized. On the older Malfoy, though, it was nothing but an old scar. A white line that severed his left eyebrow in two, a clean line where the fine blonde hair no longer grew. She was careful not to stare at him, focussing solely on her task. The same could not be said for Draco, though.
He shamelessly observed her features up close, at a distance he had never been before. He could make out all of her freckles, the smattering along her cheeks and on the bridge of her nose. He could see how thick her eyelashes were. Her colour of her eyes wasn't nearly as flat and plain as it looked from afar. Instead, it was a complex medley of warm shades: browns, golds, and a minute, almost imperceptible bit of green.
"There," she said, observing her work.
Draco reached for the cloth, soaking it in the warm water before wiping away the blood staining his skin.
"How did you find the house?"
"Dumbledore."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat.
"What?"
Draco handed her the piece of parchment sitting on the table. Although the rain had caused the ink to run, she recognized the looping, elegant penmanship immediately:
If ever you should need a safe haven Mr. Malfoy, you are always welcome at number 12 Grimmauld Place.
"He was the Secret Keeper," she murmured.
Dumbledore remained the Secret Keeper of the Headquarters until the day he died. The Order had unanimously agreed Hermione would be Secret Keeper after his death. While the house had been left to Harry by Sirius, him and Ron were somewhere in England searching for Voldemort's Horcruxes. So Hermione had made 12 Grimmauld Place her home, sending her parents to Australia with no memory of her for their own safety. As Secret Keeper, she would be at the house at all times, and only she would be able to tell people where the Headquarters was, where the house was located. Without the address, they were invisible to the outside world. It seemed Dumbledore still had a few tricks up his sleeve, though.
"He must've given it to you before he died," she told him.
"I found it in a book," he said, pulling on the grey shirt she had brought him.
"A book?"
"After he died."
"He must've known."
"Known what? That I was a coward, that I'd run and hide like some sort of traitor?"
"That you'd come to your senses."
He looked pointedly at her.
"I think it's a bit late for that," he said, gesturing to his left forearm.
There, on alabaster skin, was the ugly black brand. The Dark Mark, a snake spilling out of the mouth of a skull.
It disappeared as he pulled on a heavy red jumped Molly had knitted for Harry a few Christmases ago.
"Why did you come?"
Draco just looked away from her.
"Either you tell me or you'll have to tell the Order."
Draco remained silent.
"Fine. Who did that to you?"
"Bellatrix."
"Your aunt?"
"Not anymore."
"What happened?"
"I hesitated," he told her reluctantly. "I had to kill Dirk Crewsswell."
"Did you?"
He looked at her, unflinching. "Yes."
He didn't appear solemn or apologetic, nor did he seem conscious of any wrong he had committed. It wasn't the absence of morality, though, it was an emptiness that plagued him. His eyes were dead, devoid of life. Vagrancy and purposelessness stalked him, haunted him, coming ever closer and casting a darkness over him, darker than even Hermione was aware of.
"You didn't want to, though."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Draco Malfoy was many things. He was prejudiced, ignorant, hateful, but he was not a murderer.
"You sound so sure. Bellatrix thought the same. According to her, I have no backbone."
Hermione snorted, eliciting a unforgiving expression from Draco.
"Sorry," she murmured.
If there was anything she had learned in the past two weeks, it was that Draco not only had a backbone, but he was impossibly stubborn.
"So you left."
"I wasn't going to. I'd have to be absolutely out of my mind to consider it...but it turns out she was right. I am spineless. All it took was a bit of persuasion on her part. Just a bit."
"Persuasion?"
"Persuasion," he said pointedly.
Bellatrix had persuaded him to leave. It hardly made sense to her. Hermione was about to press on and stopped, her mouth forming a silent 'O' of understanding. Persuasion was putting it delicately. Bellatrix had a single means of getting what she wanted and when it failed, she didn't hesitate to murder them. She had tortured him and hurt him because he was human, because he faltered.
"I told her I'd had enough with her, with our precious Dark Lord, with all of it. And then she told me I was more than welcome to leave. If I could get out alive."
Hermione had nothing to say. She had found herself in a number of scrapes with Harry and Ron over the years, and she was no stranger to life-threatening situations, but Bellatrix was mad beyond any notion of madness. She had no moral compass, she had no capacity for mercy or compassion. She was hatred incarnate, warped and corrupted into a monster that found joy in the sufferings of others.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said.
He nodded, reaching for the jeans she had brought him.
"I'll show you where the bathroom is," she said, getting up from her spot across from him.
Hermione took him on a tour of the house. It was a long ways away from the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, but she imagined there was a warmer, more welcome atmosphere at Grimmauld Place. The house wasn't haunted by Voldemort and his minions, by the memories of all those he had killed. It was a home, a makeshift family, a place where people would give him the second chance that so many others would not.
She showed him the study on the second floor, bypassing Harry and Ron's room. On the third floor she pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He changed quickly, meeting her back out on the landing. Hermione showed him to the spare bedroom across the way, immediately next to hers.
"What's up there?" he asked, looking up the dark, crooked staircase.
"Nothing," she lied. "Just spare rooms."
He knew she was hiding something. She had, had a row with someone earlier. Someone else lived in this house. Draco was in no position to be insistent, though. He could only be grateful for sanctuary, a roof over his head, shielding him from the rain and the cold, the storm outside.
The next morning Hermione helped Mrs. Weasley with breakfast but her mind was elsewhere. She constantly looked to the door, fearing he would walk in at any moment. Hermione hadn't told anyone yet. It wasn't that she didn't want to, she was worried about their reactions. How would they handle this, realistically? They had to keep Draco safe, and as far as they knew, the only safe haven for him was here...with his future self living one floor above him.
"Hermione? Hermione, dear," Mrs. Wesley said, reaching for rolling pin. "I think they're quite flat enough."
"Hm?" she asked absently, looking down at the counter in front of her. She had been so preoccupied, so worried, she had flattened the dough to the point where it began to fall apart. "Oh, sorry."
From her spot at the kitchen table, Tonks peered over at them.
"You alright there, Hermione?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just trouble sleeping."
"I bet," she grinned. "Remus tells me my cousin's been a right pain. If he's giving you a hard time, I'd be more than willing to have a few words with him."
"No," she said, clearing her throat. "No, that's fine. It's alright, he's fine. Long night, that's all."
"You sure you're alright, Hermione?" Remus asked, peering over the top of the morning Prophet. It was quite useless as far as realistic news, but it did give the Order some insight into the Death Eater's agenda. "Perhaps you've taken on too much, with the search for Horcruxes and now Draco."
"I'm fine," she laughed, shrugging.
"C'mon, Hermione," Fred said.
"You can't pass one over on us. We know you too well," George said.
"So what's going on? You look like a mad woman," Fred teased.
"Thanks," she said sardonically.
"Well?" George prompted.
Everyone was listening now. They had forgotten whatever they had been doing. Remus had set the paper down, Mrs. Weasley had stopped cooking, Tonks was leaning forward in her seat excitedly. The twins looked at her expectantly.
The front door opened and Mad-Eye hobbled in followed closely by Snape.
"Brilliant," she said, panic starting to set in.
Mad-Eye would see right through her...literally. And the house as well. He'd see right through the floors, the walls, and spot the other Draco in a heartbeat. Constant vigilance. Like a Sherlock Holmes character, he would spot what was there that wasn't before, what was different, what had been hidden before anyone else. Albeit it was due to a magical eye and not keen skills of observation.
"Come along, Hermione," Tonks said. "Did you hear from Harry and Ron?"
"No," she said.
No one bothered to welcome Mad-Eye or Snape. They too were looking at her impatiently.
"Let me preface this by saying I would have told you sooner, but it happened late last night and I was able to acquire some relevant information, helpful even."
"This sound promising," Fred said, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
"Very," George agreed.
"Yes?" Remus prompted.
Hermione wiped her hands, covered in flour, on her apron and pulled from her pocket a dark, sturdy wand, setting it on the edge of the kitchen table.
"Whose is that?" Fred asked.
Snape looked from the wand to her, a curious expression on his face. He recognized the wand. Hermione knew he would.
"Draco's," Hermione said.
"But he didn't have a wand," Tonks said.
"It belongs to the other Draco," she said. "The younger Draco, the one that showed up on the doorstep last night."
A deafening silence quelled the excitement that had been teeming in the room. The news was met with similar expressions of confusion, shock, and disbelief looking back at her, waiting for more information.
The door opened and Mr. Weasley bustled into the kitchen.
"Late for breakfast, am I?"
Everyone turned to look at him, unable to quickly come to terms with what they had all just heard. Remus cleared his throat. The twins looked back to Hermione like she suddenly sprouted a second head. Snape still had a curious expression on his face. Hermione couldn't quite tell if it was anger or confusion. All of his surly expression were very similar, very hard to differentiate. Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband, opening and closing her mouth several times. Tonks's eyebrows had disappeared beneath her violet-coloured fringe.
The jolly expression on Mr. Weasley's face faded quickly.
"What's happened?" he asked. "Good lord, has someone died?"
"There's two of him?" George asked, clarifying.
"Yes," Hermione said.
"Two of him? In this house?" Fred asked.
Hermione nodded.
"One of those slimy gits was enough," George said.
"And now there are two!" Fred despaired.
"Keep your voices down," Hermione hissed.
"Yes," Remus said. "He can't know his future self is in this house."
"Hypothetically," George began.
"What would happen if they ran into each other?" Fred finished.
"Mayhem," Mad-Eye said gruffly. "Absolute chaos."
"Would they implode or disappear, like some sort of hole in time?" George asked hopefully.
"No one knows. It's never been documented," Remus said.
Mrs. Wesley shot her sons a warning look.
"This is no time for nonsense," she scolded.
"Quite," Mr. Weasley agreed.
"So what are we going to do?" Tonks asked. "He can't very well stay here with...y'know who hanging around upstairs."
"What other choice do we have?" Hermione asked.
"You can't be serious, Hermione!" Fred said.
"You want to live with the both of them? Two Malfoys? Better sleep with both eyes open, then, not just one," Fred said.
"Hush!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.
"Nymphadora is right," Remus said. "It's too great a risk. Merlin forbid they run into one another..."
"Where else can he go?" Hermione asked.
"We could persuade Minerva to have one of them at the castle, separate from the students of course," Remus suggested.
"And I suppose she'll have the time to keep an eye on him?" Hermione asked. "Professor McGonagall is overwhelmed. Not to mention the young Death Eaters roaming the halls. Suppose Draco runs into one of them? They'll kill him."
"There are other options," Remus assured her.
"Like what?" Hermione asked.
"Granger's right."
The cold, calculated voice was the most reasonable of all in the crowded room. Snape had sat for the duration of the conversation in silence, simply listening. It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd arrived with Mad-Eye.
"Pardon?" Mr. Weasley asked.
"You think they should both stay here?" Remus asked.
"You forget that Mr. Malfoy already knows what his younger self will do," Snape said. "Granger won't be handling this alone. Who understands Draco better than himself?"
Hermione watched her old Potions Master carefully. What he said was reasonable and logical, but she couldn't help but think he had an ulterior motive. Since he had arrived, Draco had been adamant that everything go according to plan, his plan. He wanted certain events to unfold in the same manner as they had before. It was obvious Draco had stayed at Grimmauld Place with Hermione in his past. It appeared that both Snape and Draco wanted to assure that would happen again. Instead of one Draco, though, she'd be juggling two.
They heard a door open and close somewhere upstairs.
"Should we speak to him?" Mr. Weasley asked.
"No," Hermione said. "I think it's best I go speak with him."
If there was anything she had learned the first time around it was that bombarding Draco with questions, allowing members of the Order to verbally assault him, didn't necessarily benefit anyone. Tempers were short and attitudes were unforgiving. The last thing they all needed was another argument. Tensions were high enough following Draco's abrupt arrival a few weeks earlier. Now they were at the breaking point with a house full of Order members and two former Death Eaters, two Draco Malfoys, living under the same roof.
"Alright," Remus said. He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh, is it that time already?"
"Sorry about breakfast, Molly," Tonks said.
"Not to fret," Mrs. Weasley assured her.
"Shall we?" Remus asked, looking to Mr. Weasley, Mad-Eye, and Snape.
"What's going on?" George asked.
"Draco gave us some insight on Umbridge's operation. We've managed to get someone on the inside, but time is running out. Security is tighter than ever at the Ministry. Before they can be spotted, we've got to be sure of what's going on, be ready to make our next move. It's just a quick exchange of information," Remus told them.
Fred and George looked a bit put down. The tedious bits never failed to bore them. It was probably better that way, though. Mrs. Weasley wouldn't be worrisome and the likelihood the twins would wind up in trouble was dramatically smaller.
"Look before you leap, right?" Tonks winked at them.
"That's the idea," Mr. Weasley agreed. "We should be going then. It's nearly half past."
"Right then," Mad-Eye said.
"How about we stop by tomorrow night to talk things over with Draco?" Remus asked.
"That should be fine," Hermione nodded.
"Excellent. See you then," he said, heading for the door.
"Bye, Hermione," Tonks waved. "Molly! Fred, George!"
The group of them left and Mrs. Weasley hurried to clean up the unfinished breakfast she had begun to prepare.
"Don't worry about that," Hermione said. "I can clean it up, Mrs. Weasley."
"Not a chance, Hermione, dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled.
With a flick of her wand everything found its way back to its proper place. She put the biscuits in a basket and covered them with a tea towel.
"Just put these in the oven for half an hour and they'll be grand," she smiled. "I'm sorry to leave like this, Hermione, but we should be getting home now. I'm expecting Bill and Fleur will be by shortly."
"That's alright," Hermione said, seeing the three Wesley's out. "Tell them I say hello."
She wished them goodbye, gently closing the door behind her. Beyond the wards surrounding the house, Hermione could make out three faint cracks. As it was every morning after everyone had left, the silence was sudden and overwhelming. But this time, Hermione wasn't alone. Far from it. She had two similar, but very different, guests upstairs.
She figured the best course of action was to wait until one of them came to her. The future Draco wasn't stupid enough to cross paths with his younger self. Like Snape had said, no one knew what Draco would do next better than himself. After all, he had already lived this life once before. Hermione climbed the stairs slowly, thinking over the precarious nature of the situation. They were three mice living in a shoebox. The two blonde wizards could not, under any circumstances, run into each other. There was one bathroom, one common area, and one kitchen. The only spaces they had to themselves were their rooms.
Hermione turned into the study, navigating herself around the couch, the coffee table, and the piles of books to her desk. She sat down and opened the book Madam Pince had left her, The Nuances of Magical Objects: Misuses and Malfunctions. It was a lovely book of good quality. The cover was a dark shade of evergreen with gold embossed letters. The pages were heavy and think, the ink raised on the yellowing sheets. Although it had been kept in impeccable shape by Madam Pince, no doubt, the age of the volume was beginning to show. The edges of the pages were ragged and uneven, and a perpetual layer of dust clung to the cloth hardcover and the bindings.
Hermione had come across a curious passage a few days earlier, but she didn't quite know what to make of it:
The hourglass does not merely contain the sand of time, but directs it. The complex magic of the Time-Turner controls time in a linear structure. The sands funnel down through the hourglass and when turned, they funnel upwards. Though instances of Time-Turner malfunctions are rare, and recordings of such instances are rarer yet, there are times when the linear trajectory of the sand is disrupted. A crack in the glass or a rupture in the container that enables the sand to flow freely in any direction is correlative to travel, not only through time but through space as well. With no receptacle to temper the magic within the sand of a Time-Turner, one could theoretically transcend space, could begin at point A and end at point B. The magic of time travel, though, is as dangerous as it is precarious. Without the linear composition of time created by the Time-Turner, there is no way for a witch or wizard to control their destination.
"What are you reading?"
Hermione jumped violently, dropping the book and letting out a shriek. Her heart jumped into her throat, beating erratically, and she looked up with wide eyes. Draco smirked. He was sitting on the arm of an overstuffed chair, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a red jumper and the scar through his eyebrow was still pink. It was the younger Draco.
"How long have you been there?" she asked, breathlessly.
"A while."
"And you didn't think to announce your presence?" she asked, irritated by his haughty appearance. Hermione bent down and picked up the book. She placed it in a drawer and out of sight. The last thing she needed was him asking questions.
"I said your name."
"You did not."
"I did. I called your name. Clearly you were engrossed in your book. Can't say that I'm surprised. I doubt you'd ever get bored reading a book."
"What?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.
His voice seemed to echo in her ear, nearly repeating an earlier sentiment uttered the previous night: 'I never thought I would see the day that you found a book boring.' Only it wasn't the same voice. Well it was, but it belonged to a Draco two years older than the one sitting in front of her. Although they were very much the same person, it unsettled Hermione to hear such similar opinions from two people she regarded as very different. Two years was a long time, two long years in which one could change.
"You read. A lot."
Hermione's face burned. "I like to read. Is that a crime now?"
"Do you constantly have to know everything?"
'You are not the only one who wants to know what happens, but you certainly are the only one who needs to know everything.'
"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" she asked.
He looked at her, confused. Draco had no idea what she was talking about.
"Nevermind," she murmured. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Some of the Order are coming by tomorrow to speak with you."
"Brilliant," he said ineffectually.
"Don't worry, it'll be fine."
"I'm not worried."
"No?"
"I'm not completely useless to the Order. I was a Death Eater for a reason."
"Ah," she said.
Hermione averted her eyes and began to gather her notes.
"Does it make you uncomfortable?"
"That you're a Death Eater?"
She looked up to see him nod, his eyes trained on her, waiting for her reaction.
"No," she said truthfully.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not the only person who's done something terrible or something that they regret. No one is entirely good, Malfoy."
"You are."
She stopped leafing through pages of parchment sitting on her desk and looked up at him.
"You help bloody house elves," he said, looking away from her and quickly backtracking. "Which is completely ridiculous, by the way. You think you can undo centuries of wizarding history by knitting them socks?"
Hermione opened her mouth to interject.
"Yes, yes, I heard all about your crusade to free the house elves at school. Knitting tea cozies for hats and hiding them under pillows. All the Slytherins had a good laugh about it in the common room. Some things, Granger, are better left the way they are. They like the way things are, they don't need you interfering."
"Interfering! What a load of rubbish! Those poor house elves don't know anything other than servitude, it doesn't mean they're happy with it. At least with a different life they could choose which they prefer instead of being forced into it."
"How do you expect them to choose for themselves? Do you think it's easy to abandon everything you know? They can't be sure what will happen to them when they leave everything behind. There are consequences!"
Somewhere along the line, she had touched a nerve. It occurred to Hermione that they were no longer talking about house elves. If that was the only way Draco could articulate his feelings and his fears, by hiding them in plain sight, then Hermione wasn't going to stop him. If he didn't find a way to release the fear and the panic that he had bottled up, he would only become a danger to himself and everyone around him, a walking time bomb.
"Yes, there are. There are also consequences for standing idly by! Isn't it enough to trust yourself and your decisions, to try to make the most of what you have?"
"No, it's not. Not when you don't know who you are!"
Draco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
"I think," she said softly, kindly. "If someone has the fortitude to do what's right in a world of wrongdoing, then they don't have to worry about who they are. They are already much better than they give themselves credit for."
He didn't move or say anything, he didn't even look up at her. She didn't need acknowledgement from him, though. Hermione knew that he heard her and that was enough. All she needed was for him to understand that his life wasn't over, despite what he had been taught all those years. Leaving Voldemort was not the end. No one would punish him or berate him for his mistakes, not at Grimmauld Place, not by the Order. Although she was working against years of prejudice, she was sure that he would see reason. They had done nothing by try to help him, after all.
Gathering the last of her research, she left the room and left him mulling over what she had said. Hermione went upstairs towards her room, making it to the second floor landing before colliding into something solid. She fell on her bum, scattering sheets of parchment everywhere.
"Watch yourself."
A hand clamped around her upper arm in an attempt to help her to her feet. Hermione pulled her arm away, getting to her feet on her own and collecting her notes.
"I can do it myself," she snapped.
Draco put his hands up in surrender. "Great, what's wrong now?"
"Are you genuinely concerned?" she asked. "Or are you just asking?"
"Aren't we in a mood."
"It's your fault!"
"My fault? What did I do?"
"Everything! You're arrogant, proud, rude, and don't think for a moment that I've forgotten this morning!"
"This morning?"
"Yes! You ordered me around like I was your serf, insulted me, and then proceeded to manhandle me!"
"Oh, that," he said. "You're still upset about that?"
"Upset? Upset? You may brag about your knowledge of the future, Malfoy, but you've proved to be nothing but completely useless!"
"You're the one who wanted me here. This morning you told that lot downstairs it was best I stay here. You vouched for me. Twice now."
"How did you know that?" she asked, looking at him suspiciously. "Were you eavesdropping?"
"No. You told me."
"I did no such thing!"
"Well, you will."
"Not anymore."
"So," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Why are we whispering?"
"Because you are downstairs, in the study."
"Ah," he said, looking down at the mess of notes in her arms. "What's all this, then?"
A thought occurred to Hermione which blossomed into a plan, a poorly conceived plan, but a plan nonetheless. They were at a stalemate. Hermione needed information from Draco if she was ever going to send him back to his own time, information he'd made it clear he was not willing to share. As it turned out, though, the passage she had stumbled across in Madam Pince's book contained information valuable to him as well. He wanted to prevent her from sending him back almost as much as she wanted to return him to his proper time.
"Nothing really," she shrugged. "Notes on a curious passage about Time-Turners I found in a book that Madam Pince loaned me."
Hermione moved to walk around him and into her room but he grabbed her upper arm again, pulling her in front of him like a rag doll.
"What did you find?"
She shook her head slowly, glaring at him. Draco released his grip on her arm, fearing her sour mood would flare up and with it he would not be able to find out what she had learned.
"Hermione," he said, struggling to remain calm and collected. She was purposefully dangling this in front of him, and she was enjoying it. Immensely.
"Yes, Draco?"
"Don't be coy," he said. "Tell me what you've found."
"You show me yours and I'll show you mine."
"Come off it."
"You. First."
He glared at her, his jaw clenched. Their eyes were locked. Hermione was not letting him off that easy.
"Fine," he hissed.
The sound of footsteps broke the tension, instilling a sudden panic. Hermione looked down at the narrow staircase that curved ever so slightly. She turned to Draco, standing in front of her. There were only three doors on the landing. The furthest was the bathroom and one belonged to the Draco now climbing the stairs behind them. The closest door, her door, was slightly ajar.
Draco was staring, transfixed, at the stairs, waiting for his younger self to appear at any moment. Hermione shoved the papers into his hands, drawing his attention. He looked down at the crumpled parchment and then to her, nearly groaning when he recognized her expression. She was biting her bottom lip lightly and had a slight frown on her face. This would not be pleasant, at least not for him. She planted her hands firmly on his chest and shoved him violently, with as much force as she could muster. He tumbled backwards, first crashing into a door before catching the edge of the dresser and finding himself on a hardwood floor.
Grimmauld Place was old. It was at once the worst and the best thing about the ancestral house. The hinges of Hermione's door had rusted out of neglect, making it difficult to open and close with ease. Fortunately, the door was inclined to swing shut of its own volition because of this. Draco had crashed into the door with such force it had ricocheted off the wall behind it and slammed shut just as the younger version of the blonde wizard appeared at the top of the landing.
Draco looked at her and then the door behind her with a wary expression.
"If you're hungry," she said, straightening her jumper and flattening her wild curls. "There's food in the kitchen."
She quickly turned and slipped into her room, careful to open the door only slightly and click it shut behind her.
"She's a nutter," Draco murmured, shaking his head and sauntering downstairs.
TO BE CONTINUED
